


nicotine

by mssjynx



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Angst, Cheating, Friends With Benefits, Intimacy, M/M, Unrequited Love, but inclusive of sexual scenes and intimacy, comparisons to drugs/smoking, not smut, slight nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mssjynx/pseuds/mssjynx
Summary: it's hard to follow drunken nights and even harder to say no when your words are locked away for the better of someone else. he doesn't want to talk about it. he just wants to forget about everything else.he doesn't feel a thing but evan feels too fucking much.





	nicotine

**Author's Note:**

> warnings: slight nsfw/mentions of sex and intimacy
> 
> *
> 
> first time writing proper angst and an angst oneshot. it was requested of me by two people so here it is. hope you enjoy, lemme know what you think.   
> <3

Evan didn't know when things changed. A drunken evening leading to a night of fogged windows and intimacy. All he remembered of it was hot tongues and heavy moans. Slurred words neither of them heard stained their memories in a language he couldn't read.

Evan woke alone. The cold of his bed was so contrasted to the heat he'd fallen asleep in. When he dragged himself out of the tangle of blankets, the glass of water and pain medication went down smoothly. His headache dulled. He dreaded going downstairs but was met with careful eyes. "Don't overthink it, we just got drunk, it's fine. It doesn't change anything, I promise."

And it didn't. They were still roommates, they were still best friends. Jon laughed and joked and touched him all the same, never leaving a moment of awkward air between them. Evan almost forgot it ever happened until two weeks after Jon came home with angry red eyes and stuttering lungs.

Before Evan could even ask him what was wrong, Jon's lips were smothering his and he tattooed the words, "Make me forget," to the inside of Evan's mouth. He didn't have the fight to say no and they reduced themselves to a tangled mess in Evan's bed. Completely sober, he remembered every second of bliss, every word that dripped from Jon's lips of "god yes" and "you're so perfect".

He woke alone. Each time Jon's bloodshot eyes were mentioned, he changed the subject, brushing all and everything off with "it's fine", "I was overreacting", "don't worry about it". A week later was when Evan snapped. Infuriated, upset, confused: "Why won't you tell me what happened? I care about you!"

Jon's sky-blue eyes dropped to the tiles and sighed. "I don't want to talk about it." He wouldn't make eye contact. No matter how Evan moved, he kept his blank face down, permanently engraved with strain. He tried so hard to keep his pain locked behind the bars of his ribcage.

Evan sank back down into a silence of regret and sorrow. "What can I do to help?"

"Just… please don't leave me too."

So he didn't. They stayed roommates, stayed friends, stayed laughing and joking and teasing. Evan didn't bring it up again, Jon didn't talk about it. It was another three weeks before Jon was sitting on his lap, fingers pulling his hair, moaning in his mouth.

There wasn't any reason other than a need for satisfaction and Evan didn't have the voice to say anything against it. He knew he should have, he knew it was wrong. You don't just routinely fuck your roommate and not talk about it. It was a practice destined for pain and the more he ignored it, the more it grew and the more it worried him. Bruises on his throat and shoulders a constant reminder of how everything could so easily go wrong.

No matter how logically he thought about it, he didn't say anything. He couldn't bring it up, or ask about it, even when each morning he woke in a cold bed with heavy lungs and an aching body. Jon always greeted him with breakfast and a coffee but never an explanation. That evening they sat down to play a dumb horror game and it was like nothing had ever even changed.

Evan could not shake the feeling of guilt and regret. No amount of telling himself, "It doesn't mean anything" and "it's just sex". He swallowed his logic, he swallowed his guilt.

The sex meant nothing to Jon. That was how it was, it was merely a relief, of stress, memories, lust. It wasn't Evan, it was his body and what he could do with it. What he could do to him. 

After another night of tangled limbs and messy kisses Evan realised he had an issue. Jon's whispers of, "Come on Evan, get on with it." when he spent too much time laying kisses on freckled thighs. How he couldn't tear his watch from Jon's blissed out expression, when his eyes fell shut and his bruised lips softened. The word "beautiful" dropped into his thoughts uninvited and he didn't have the strength to shove it back out. He found himself wanting to curl his arms around his housemate and lay kisses on the freckles that decorated his shoulders, rub circles into his back that was riddled with knots and tension.

He had to stop it all. 

He couldn't. They had sex almost twice a week, the situation becoming normal and instinctive. It became expected that Jon would sit himself on Evan's lap and bite at his lips until they were just a mess of heat and sweat and gasps. It was normal and Evan had a problem. Jon tasted him like a drug, addicted with hazy thoughts filled with bliss. He was addicted to the sex, Evan's sex. The kisses; all tongue and teeth, the touches; bruising and desperate, the noises; breathy and hot. Evan's body was his way out, his weed, his smoke, his numbing agent.

It wasn't the same for Evan. Of course, he too was addicted. To the heat that came off Jon's skin and the sounds that slipped from his lips. The glaze of his eyes, the softness of his hair, the pigment of the bruises along his neck and collarbones. Evan breathed it in and held it in his lungs for as long as he could. But Jon was like smoke and Evan hated nothing more than when he needed to exhale. The smoke drifted from his lungs as Jon was leaving his room in an oversized shirt, shutting the door behind him at three a.m. He grew to hate the taste of oxygen

Evan was addicted but not just to the sex, he wanted the whole package, craved the whole package. But he knew that was out of his reach.

Every time Jon limped through the house, or wore his hickeys like clothing; Evan couldn't say anything. He couldn't wrap him up in his arms and lay careful kisses to the bruises, or make him tea and give him massages when he got stiff and sore. He couldn't love him like he would a boyfriend because Jon was not a boyfriend, he was a roommate and a sex addict.

Evan wanted to be more. He wanted to be a boyfriend and each night was a step forward in a dark abyss. Week after week he struggled to figure out what he was walking towards and it hit him painfully hard late at night, covered in sweat and bruises and sex, when he realised he was falling and the cliff was far too high for him to survive when he hit the ground.

He did not know where he was hurting more when four days later he lay crumpled and splintered into unrepairable pieces, and at dinner Jon spoke the words "I'm seeing someone." He could not tell whether it were the bones in his legs that were shattered, or those that encased his lungs and heart.

He just nodded, swallowing his agony along with the spaghetti in his mouth. "I'm happy for you."

They both knew it was a bit more than just a casual announcement. It was lined with, "we have to stop having sex," and "he's you but actually worth something." Jon had someone else to pull under the covers of his bed but he had more than that when they shared kisses in the kitchen while covered in flour, and when they fed each other dinner at the table, and when they cuddled while watching movies. Ryan was Jon's boyfriend, someone who was allowed to be with Jon and touch Jon and love Jon in a way Evan never could. Ryan was a boyfriend while he had just been someone to fuck.

Evan held in his jealousy beneath sweet smiles and introductions. Firm handshakes, polite conversation; he closed his eyes every time they kissed. He held his breath until it burned and he couldn't tell whether it was the air or the envy that stung his lips like acid. He sewed his words into the lining of his lungs and didn't wince when they swelled with infection. They weren't supposed to be there but they were not allowed to come out. They were not to be given a voice.

When he came home to Jon and his boyfriend, he spoke quick and polite, kept his eyes on the ground and excused himself upstairs to his bedroom at the first possible moment. They didn't talk about it, Evan didn't think they ever would. Jon was happy and Evan told himself that he would get over it.

When Jon climbed into his lap on a night Ryan wasn't there, he found himself tasting what he'd been craving for weeks. All tongue and teeth, Evan was breathless in seconds, Jon's hands painfully familiar. He felt the smoke fill his lungs and he almost lost himself completely to his cravings.

It took Evan too long to pull himself back. It hurt too much to put a hand to Jon's chest and put distance between them. "Jon…" His voice cracked, rough and weak. His thoughts couldn't seem to settle on one thing. The brunette's fingers didn't pause as they undid buttons and wandered beneath his shirt. Blue eyes followed their exact movements. "You can't cheat on Ryan."

Those sky-blue eyes faltered but could not rid themselves of the lust and hunger they wore. "I… I don't want to talk about it." He never did. "I just want you to fuck me; he doesn't do it like you do." Each word he spoke painted itself along his jaw beneath soft lips. He regretted the way he let their lips lock and tongues tangle again. He regretted the way he pulled Jon's shirt off and then his own. He regretted the way he sounded when Jon's tongue divested him of his guilty thoughts and instead drowned him in heat and pleasure and addiction.

"No," he should have said. "You can't do this to him", "You can't use me to cheat on him", "You never want to fucking talk about things."

But he didn't. They had sex. Jon cheated. Three days later, Jon was under him again, eyes bloodshot with tears and lips begging to make him forget. There was no way Ryan didn't find out, whether it had been by the limp Jon didn't even notice he had the next morning, or the bruises that lined his thighs and hipbones. 

Evan felt sick in his stomach, guilt and regret, guilt and regret, guilt and regret. He hated the way he felt in those moments with Jon's hands grasping his shoulders, and mouth spilling pleas and praise and promises that never remained. He hated that he could not push him away.

"What happened?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

When he tried to push a little harder, Jon repeated himself with a snap in his voice. He grabbed his keys and left the house, left the words "I'm sorry" and "I didn't mean to fall in love with you" trapped beneath Evan's tongue. He swallowed them and went to sleep, refusing to look in the mirror because he knew all he would see were the purple bruises down his neck left behind by a mouth that tasted like nicotine.

He couldn't bare it.

Evan woke early the next morning, leaving a glass of water and some pain medicine on his friend's bedside table. Jon's dishevelled hair and scrunched up face was too innocent and vulnerable and Evan forced himself to look away. His exposed neck showed off hickeys bigger and darker than those Evan liked to leave behind. They were ugly and he noticed Jon repeatedly scratch at them throughout the day. He also noticed the limp the other wore, his movements slow and stiff. Evan hadn't seen the other ever so exhausted but he'd only ever learnt to stay silent and the words "are you alright?" didn't even make it past his tongue.

They didn't talk about any of it. Not Ryan, not the sex, not his one-night-stand. They played videogames and watched films and didn't talk about anything but their plans for tomorrow and what was on their shopping list. It was ten days after Jon had left the house to get drunk and fucked that he followed Evan into the kitchen and placed a hand to his chest. When he leaned in to press his lips his roommate's, Evan turned away. He reached up and pulled the torturous fingers away from his shirt. His brown eyes stayed on the curtains past Jon and didn't look any lower.

"Not today." The words were empty and blunt. Nothing more than a simple statement, brushing off the older man and turning back to the dishes he was washing.

Jon didn't ask what was wrong. He didn't know how to. "Okay." He walked from the room and went to bed.

The next time Evan rejected Jon's advances was a while later. "No Jon, I wanna watch the movie."

Blue eyes were layered with distrust and he didn't move from where he'd sat himself on Evan's lap, knees either side of his hips. He didn't push against the hand on his chest, knowing better than to try and come onto his friend without it being physically welcome. "Oh come on, what's with you? Since when did you care about watching Cats vs Dogs?"

"Jon." His voice was stern but Jon was persistent.

"I just want to have sex, Evan, it's been weeks." Jon's lips curved in a frown, voice soft and thin. It seemed breakable as it hovered in the air between them, the room dark but not dark enough that Evan couldn't see the clouds in Jon's sky eyes.

"We can't just keep fucking. I'm sick of hearing you say 'I don't want to talk about it.'" The act of speaking was difficult. Physical pain throbbed in his throat with every word that dared to jump off his tongue. He wasn't supposed to speak; these words were supposed to remain hidden.

Jon's hands curled into fists in Evan's shirt, eyes no longer wanting to meet his. He didn't know how to respond. "I don't…" He had to search for something to say, always a man of impulse rather than thought. When he looked back up, blue flared with an upset kind of anger. "It's not like it means anything. We're both single, we're both hot - we're just roommates and we fuck, it's not even a big deal." Words of denial; refusal to admit what they were doing was wrong and dangerous and bound to lead to trouble.

This was the trouble.

Evan found his lungs exploding before he could stop them, bleeding words finally finding a voice. "It might not be for you but it is for me, Jonathon!"

His words were strained, forced from his mouth with pain he couldn't bear. His brown eyes were sharp with anger; anger at Jon who just couldn't understand, anger at himself for falling in love. The fingers that held his shirt loosened and Jon's face fell slack. Big eyes, parted lips, he looked totally clueless and Evan had to continue. For once he have a voice, he had to tell him the truth. "We've been doing this for months, even while Ryan was here and I can't stand it Jon." _Prove me wrong._ "I'm sorry." _Please_ _._ "I'm so fucking sorry because I know it means fuck all to you." _Tell me I'm wrong._ "I didn't mean to." _I want to be wrong._ "I didn't want to fall in love with you." _Say you love me too._ "I'm sorry."

It was silent. Jon's mouth was wordless, eyes wide and shocked and completely confused. Evan watched the understanding come over his face, a look of wander and regret and guilt. The anger was gone. "I don't…"

He knew it. He'd known it for weeks, for months even. He'd known it since the first drunken night. Jon didn't feel the same but the stupid fucking hope in his gut told him to hang onto the chance. He was so _fucking stupid_ _._

Jon shifted. He swung his leg over off Evan's lap, and shuffled back to put space between them. His eyes stayed on the dark blue couch. For once he felt small. He looked small. "I'm sorry, I don't… I don't feel the same… I…"

"I know." Evan's voice was abrupt and cut off. The skin of his chest tore open, ripping all the way down to his guts. He felt his lungs split, his heart shattering with the words he knew he would hear. It wasn't supposed to surprise him, it wasn't supposed to hurt like this. He'd known this already.

"I should… I'm gonna go for a drive. I need to… think about things. I'm, uh, I'm sorry." Jon stood and backed up a few steps. The room was shrinking around them, the walls crying, the TV still echoing sound neither of them heard. He paused, glancing up to Evan's eyes for a last time and hesitating at the utter vulnerability and pain they wore. "I'm sorry, Evan."

The words were choked out and strained, confusion and sorrow swallowed down. Evan dropped his eyes to his hands and listened as Jon hurriedly walked from the house. The jangle of keys. The slam of the door. The rev of his car engine.

He was gone.

Evan stared at the carpet beneath his bare feet, the soft cream colour he'd grown all too familiar with. _He'd broken everything_. The carpet was still the same colour, still the same texture, still the same everything. _He'd ruined more than just the sex_. The carpet now held pieces. Pieces of Evan, glass fragments of his lungs and ribs and heart. Pieces of Jon, the sky blue colour painted to the inside of Evan's bloodstream. _He'd torn their friendship down the middle_.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head to his hands, chest tight and hurting, lungs not big enough to breathe. No matter how many deep breaths washed in and out of his lungs he could not scrub the taste of nicotine from their walls. He could not scrub the craving and lust for another puff of smoke from his tongue.

His cigarette had burnt out.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: 
> 
> chinxino5.tumblr.com


End file.
